


Did My Heart Love Till Now?

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M, Secret Identity, Waltzing, look the Noldor don't have waltzing and I know this but it's ROMANTIC okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:15:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22645513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: There is a masquerade in Formenos. Findekáno is always up for a challenge.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 32
Kudos: 127





	1. Beauty Too Rich for Use

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mallornblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallornblossom/gifts).



> This is entirely inspired by a conversation I had with the lovely mallornblossom about an idea he had where Findekáno sneaks into an enemy ballroom Romeo and Juliet-style; I found I couldn't resist.

"This is a terrible idea."

"It is _not,"_ Findekáno said, keeping his voice low as he scaled the wall that stood between him and his uncle's private gardens. It was lower than the walls that kept Formenos apart from the rest of Valannor - those had been a true challenge, crafted of some slick glassy stone he could not name - but he and Írissë had managed to scramble over them that morning while Telperion waned and the mingling of the lights drew near, and it had been easy enough to spend the day hidden in a cooper's workshop.

"Yes," his sister said as he straddled the top of the wall, "it _is._ What are we even _doing_ here, anyway?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, watching as she clambered up after him and ducked beneath the spreading branches of a particularly hardy oak tree. "You know as well as I do. We're sneaking into Fëanáro's birthday ball."

"Yes," she said, rolling her eyes, "I know, but _why?_ It's not as if we know anyone here who we miss that dreadfully, and is it truly worth being thrown out at swordpoint when we are inevitably caught? Everyone here is quite loyal to him."

"Well, _I_ want to go," Findekáno asserted, grinning at her. "To prove it can be done. It is a masquerade, after all."

"Let me guess," Írissë said. "This is your idea of fun."

"Sneaking into my troublesome uncle's carefully built misery fortress? Of course it is."

"You are going to get yourself seriously inconvenienced."

"You mean to tell me," Findekáno said, "that this is not exciting to you at all?"

For a few moments Írissë was silent, and then she grinned. _"Appanyël,"_ she told him, and he laughed.

"Come on, then," he said. "We have borrowed finery in our packs, and the light of Laurelin is waning, and it will soon be dark within the walls of this dreadful place."

"And if we stay up here for much longer, someone _will_ spot us," Írissë answered, already turning to drop down into the garden, "even though we picked the most deserted place in the whole of his house to sneak inside."

"It's only family here," Findekáno said, following her down, "and we have at least a halfway chance of our discoverer being one of our cousins who _likes_ us."

"I cannot believe you have talked me into this madness," his sister answered, but she laughed. "Turn around and let me get into this dreadful gown. Who wears bright orange to a ball? Well - I have answered my own question, for I am wearing it."

Findekáno chuckled, stripping out of his own shirt and trousers easily enough. He had made off with a suit borrowed from Arakáno, crafted in the days when he was near enough to his eldest brother's height and not towering over all his siblings; it was easy to slip into tight-fitting black velvet leggings with four gold buttons that led up to his waist, and a light silk shirt with delicate lace at cuff and collar, and a black velvet jacket with flared tails that was covered in gold embroidery hinting at stars. His travel-stained brown boots were traded out for well-polished black ones that gleamed even in the fading gold light, and he had taken out his trademark braids and instead bound up his hair in a complicated knot at the base of his skull. Last of all was a close-fitting leather mask that he had privately commissioned, covering his face save for eyes, lips, and chin. It was black to match his boots, and dotted with flecks of gleaming gold; once it was tied into place by a satin ribbon, he knew he would look more or less like any Noldo associated with the house of Finwë.

"What are you supposed to be?" Írissë asked. "I think I am some kind of insect, though I am not sure." Her mask was orange and yellow and red to match her layers of clothing, styled after the wide curling wings of a _wilwarin,_ and she had a pair of matching wings fastened to the back of her gown that were crafted of thin tulle stretched over a wire frame.

"I am the Night," Findekáno said, grinning at her.

"That is morbid," Írissë informed him. "To reference the darkness beyond the Pelóri, I mean. Isn't it a bad omen of some sort?"

"You are being superstitious," Findekáno informed his sister as he put his own clothes into his pack and hid it beneath a bush. "And besides, if it _is_ a bad omen, who better to bring it to than Fëanáro?"

"Oh, on your own head be it," Írissë said, watching him rise and begin to walk toward the brightly-lit great house. She sighed, and followed after. "These shoes will pinch ere long. I am not looking forward to it. How do you mean to get into this _asar,_ anyway?"

Findekáno stopped in his tracks, and groaned. "Oh, damn it," he muttered.

"What is it?"

 _"Asar?_ Really?"

"But what am I supposed to - oh, _damn_ it all, may Fëanáro suffer a most unpleasant year, may all his milk go sour. _Aþar._ There. _Á ercat,_ uncle."

"He would be most displeased to hear you say that."

"He can _be_ displeased. I shall have to speak in his fashion for _hours_ _,_ and I do _not_ anticipate enjoying a moment of it."

"There may be a comely _nís_ or two to flirt with," Findekáno said, resuming his slow walk through the gardens.

"There are comely _níssi_ back in Tirion," Írissë answered. _"Níssi_ who do not believe that what our uncle did was justified, and who therefore will not loathe me."

"Not everyone here believes what he did was justified."

"How can you know that? They accompanied him, did they not?"

Findekáno shrugged. "Perhaps not all of them had a choice."

"You're too kind to them," she said, and cursed. "These shoes are _dreadful._ I will be rid of them as soon as possible."

"At a formal _aþar?"_ her brother asked, coming to a halt behind the last tree before a flat lawn and then windows blazing with cool light. "You will be found out."

"You're right," Írissë said, and groaned. "Why do I let you talk me into these things?"

"Because," Findekáno said, smirking at her, "you wouldn't have half as much fun in your life if you said no."

* * *

It was pure luck that they got into the great house at all, in the end. A window opening off of a kitchen hallway had been left open, and though it was high and narrow, the two _eldar_ managed to scramble up the rough outside wall and shimmy through without too much fuss. Findekáno had managed it ably, though one of Írissë's wings had been badly bent and she was forced to repair it using the reflection of the clear glass as a mirror. It was easy, then, to dodge servants and follow them out in search of the festivities. By the time that they had emerged from the maze of servants' quarters and ancillary wings into the part of the house meant for living in and entertaining in, the _aþar_ was well under way, and had been for some time, if the guests' easy demeanor with one another and with the house was any indication. Findekáno found himself worried that something - his skin, his eyes, his hair, his voice - might give him away, but he found that his earlier certainty was true enough, and he and his sister were indistinguishable from any number of fellow partygoers.

"I am going in search of something to eat," Írissë said, and Findekáno laughed when he followed her line of sight to a cluster of giggling, half-drunk _wendi_ who were gathered around a table of _mattarinci_ and conversing with one another in high-pitched tones he could not follow.

"Have fun," he said, "and do not get too drunk, and when the midnight bell sounds, we meet here."

"Of course," she said. "Trust me, I will not stay long." She smiled, and laughed, and made a face. "You were right, Finno. This _is_ fun." With that, she was gone, trailing bright orange behind her as she went, and leaving him quite alone.

 _Well,_ he thought, grinning, _that suits me._ Unlike his sister, he had not merely come to sample his uncle's culinary delights and risk being caught by the wrong loyalist. He had a goal, and he meant to attain it. Turning his back on the masses of guests, he glanced toward the stairs at the far side of the hall that rose up to the second story of the house, where he guessed that his cousins dwelt. They were dramatic, patterned after the stairs in his grandfather's own house, meant to draw the eye when you entered through the doors of wood and glass that functioned as the main entrance, and sure enough, he spotted the unmistakable silhouettes of Curufinwë and Tyelkormo lounging against the alabaster banister. They held their masks in their hands, clad in silver fabric that shone in the lamplight and artistically arranged furs respectively, and spoke amicably to one another. Findekáno wondered where Annamírë, Curufinwë's wife, was, and guessed that she and Tyelperinquar their son had avoided the attention that came with such central placing.

 _That is two,_ he thought, glancing around, _and if I know my uncle, he is sequestered in some room, dazzling a handful of sycophants with his rhetorical brilliance, and my aunt is undoubtedly sitting out this whole affair except for a single greeting for the sake of appearances._ He could see Makalaurë in a corner opposite to his brothers, holding a lap harp and dressed in the likeness of an early minstrel with an expressive, wide-eyed mask; he was playing something light and airy, and several _eldar_ had gathered around him to listen in between refilling their glasses.

 _Three,_ Findekáno told himself, nodding, and now that he knew more or less what he was looking for, it was easy enough to discover Carnistir in an adjoining room dealing out a hand of _Cuptalë,_ his wolf's-head mask pushed back on his forehead, and the Ambarussat seated on either side of him, focused entirely on the cards and their competitors. _That is all of them, then,_ he thought, _except for..._

_... Russandol.  
_

His heart pounded in his chest. _What if he is not here?_ he thought, and then shook his head. Of course Maitimo would be here; his brothers were here, and it was his father's celebration. Nerdanel might be able to justify her absence, but his eldest and heir? Never.

_So where is he?_

Findekáno made his way to a table that was laden with bottles of wine, and he seized a glass from a tray and filled it nearly to the brim with a heavy-bodied red from the local vineyards. _If I am here, I might as well take advantage of Fëanáro's hospitality,_ he decided, and seized a small meat tart from a tray borne by a passing _núrë_ and popped it into his mouth as he turned back to face the crowd. There was music beyond Makalaurë's harp, though he could not see where the musicians were sequestered, and everyone was just dipping into their cups and was beginning to pair off into not-quite-serious dancing. Once Telperion had truly begun to shine, the dancing would start in earnest; Findekáno hoped to find his lover before then, and perhaps draw him off into some private corner. It had been far too long since they had seen one another, since their last glorious days in the meadow outside Tirion. But that was before Fëanáro had gone mad, and before the world had been upset.

The minutes slipped past, and he had another glass of wine, and then another, and he had eaten so many meat tarts he suspected that the servants had noticed. He did not dare speak to anyone, even those _eldar_ whose names he knew; anyone might betray him, and then it would be trouble. _He was banished for drawing a sword on my father, and he likes me even less. No, I had better - if Russandol is not here, I ought to go._ He sighed, and downed the last of his wine, and scanned the hall one final time. Írissë was breezy and ebullient, talking eagerly with a pale-haired _nís_ who wore layer upon layer of filmy silver fabric to match her hair, and whose mask was painted upon her face; Findekáno felt bad about drawing her away from something she was clearly enjoying. The music had swelled, and the dancing was inescapable by now, taking up the full space cleared for it in the center of the room, and Curvo and Tyelko had vanished from the stairway, and in their place -

\- Findekáno swallowed hard, his throat growing dry and painful and his grip on his glass slipping and nearly going slack. His heart was pounding, and he was breathless and trying not to gape like a dying fish, and his pants were suddenly painfully tight. Descending the stairs, one hand skimming along the banister, was Maitimo.

He had eschewed a mask entirely, instead choosing to dress in a suit resembling the livery of one of their grandfather's servants, all crafted of heavy green silk. Unlike the uniforms, however, Maitimo's breeches and waistcoat were well-tailored, and he had left off the formal jacket in favor of a wide-sleeved shirt. His red hair caught the light as he moved, the highlights and lowlights gleaming like a newly-kindled flame, but rather than hanging loose about his shoulders it was bound behind his head in a low horsetail and tied off with a ribbon just as green as the suit. He glanced down at the dancers and the assorted hangers-on as he descended, silver eyes never resting in one place for too long.

He looked miserable, and Findekáno wondered if he was wishing desperately that he could be somewhere else.

Unfortunately, no sooner had his shoes touched the polished marble floor than he was surrounded by a crowd of excited _níssi,_ all intent on speaking to the most eligible bachelor in Valinor, and all doubtless hoping for a turn on his arm. Findekáno couldn't blame them - Russandol was a truly accomplished dancer, easily the most graceful partner to have in the _querië_ that could be found in the whole of Noldorin society, though he only truly came alive with a partner. Findekáno, on the other hand, was dextrous and graceful enough on his own, but he never failed to trip over his own feet when asked to pair up with some poor _elda_ his parents were gently encouraging him to be social with. Still, it rankled that this was something he could not share, and that he could only watch from the sidelines as the _nér_ he loved went flying through the steps accompanied by a near-stranger.

 _I ought to save him,_ he thought, and sighed and set his glass down on the edge of a conveniently passing tray. The _núrë_ who held it glanced at him sharply, and he made an apologetic shrug and slid through the crowd, cutting between half-drunk couples and a few groups of friends easily. Of course, the closer he got to Russandol, the harder his progress became; it seemed that every single _wendë_ on the guest list had decided to join together in an effort to snag the eldest Fëanárion for themselves. He couldn't help but laugh, behind his mask - _they think he might grace them with a smile, or a flirtatious wink, and you could not be chasing after a more unsuitable_ nér _for that -_ and yet he could see the strain in Russandol's face, and he knew he needed to move fast. _Oh, Nessa, smile on me, let me be graceful, if only for a moment!_

He was elbowing his way through the crowd now, turned so that his shoulder led him and made his passage between sharply annoyed _wendi_ more easy. He got several nasty looks as he made his way, but he shrugged them off; his mask was in no danger of being torn away, and no one seemed to have recognized him. By now, he could hear Russandol speaking to someone, and his voice was strained but quite polite and artificially sociable.

"I must beg your pardon," he said, forcing a smile, and there was a _nís_ on his arm whose hand he was politely trying to extricate. "I only - I have to - !"

Findekáno saw his opportunity, and seized it, pushing his way through the last tight ring of bodies before coming to a halt before his lover and giving a respectful half-bow. _"Haryon-nînya_ Nelyafinwë," he said, voice pitched up artificially. "Your father is looking for you."

Russandol's face fell for a fraction of a second, and then he was flawlessly shielded by a mask of courtesy yet again. "I apologize," he said to the crowd, and extricated himself from grasping arms to step away toward the shadow of the other half of the staircase and a waiting door that opened beneath it. Findekáno followed, glancing back at the mess of would-be suitors with a falsely apologetic expression and then turning to focus solely on his lover, who stood head and shoulders above him and was walking with intense purpose.

"Did my father say why he wanted me?" he asked, turning to his right as soon as they stepped through the doorway. "I had thought he was debating politics with those who pass for his friends, but - ?"

Findekáno interrupted him mid-sentence, seizing his left hand and clinging to it.

"What?" Russandol asked, turning on him. "Excuse me?"

"It's me," Findekáno said, voice barely above a whisper, and he pulled his lover to him with one hand and pushed his mask up for a moment with the other. "It's me, Russo. I - I had to see you. It has been far too long."

Russandol gaped at him, mouth hanging open, and then bent down until their lips met. For a moment, all was soft moans and roaming hands, and when they broke apart they were breathing heavily.

"It has been," he agreed, voice rough, and his eyes were gleaming. "Oh, kiss me again."

"Gladly," Findekáno said, and this time, his lover's tongue slid into his mouth.


	2. Make Blessed My Rude Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Shakespeare for giving me Feelings over a line from Romeo and Juliet, featured prominently in this chapter title.

When they broke apart for good, Russandol's eyes were sparkling and his face was flushed, but his expression was deadly serious.

"You cannot be here," he said, incredulous and gasping. "You - !"

"I _am_ here, though," he said, seizing his lover's hands in both of his. He was giddy, breathless, and excited, driven on by the euphoria of kissing and being kissed again after so long. "I came to rescue you from all this."

"How?" Russandol asked. "You - what, do you mean to take me out a window? Scale the walls of my father's house? Make off with me like you're a thief?"

"Well, if you like," Findekáno said, "but seeing as you're much taller than I am, perhaps it wouldn't be wise." He sighed. "I suppose I can't take you somewhere far away from here."

"No," Russandol said, sighing himself. "But - !"

"But," the other _nér_ interrupted, "there is nothing stopping me from doing something to save you from other, more pressing concerns." 

"What do you mean?" Russandol asked, and Findekáno grinned at his lover's obvious confusion.

"I mean," he said, "that I can keep you company through this dreadful experience known as your father's birthday _aþar_ , and I will not be caught for a second of it thanks to these masks."

"You can't - you can't just - !"

"I can," Findekáno said, "and I will. You look too lovely to be miserable." He readjusted his mask and took Russandol's arm, wrapping his own about it. "I shall be your companion. Pretend I'm one of your mother's nephews, or perhaps some fine-featured _nís_ who has dressed up as a _nér_ for the evening, even."

"All my mother's nephews are fair-skinned."

"So?"

"So you cannot be one of them!" Russandol hissed, his voice dropping to a whisper. "This is a terrible idea, Finno, you're better off just leaving."

"Not until I have brightened your evening."

"You - !" Russandol said, and groaned, and passed his free hand over his eyes. "You _cannot,_ Findekáno. It is too risky."

"Am I not _astaldo?"_

"You are incorrigible, that is what you are."

Findekáno laughed, and leaned his head against Russandol's arm. "Always," he said. "Now, let's find another door back into the party, shall we?"

"And avoid unwanted attention," his lover said, beginning to walk along the dim hallway. Despite his obvious concern, there was a lightness to his step, and an ease to his words. Findekáno smiled softly. _I managed to improve his mood a little, at least,_ he thought, feeling warmth bloom in his chest. _And I am on the arm of the best-looking_ nér _in all of Valannor. It is a fine night indeed._ He was able to match Russandol stride for stride, which made his grin widen.

"You're walking slowly for me," he said. "Truly, I have the finest lover in the whole world."

"And _you_ have the lowest standards."

"You're an ass," Findekáno retorted. "Let me enjoy this."

"Only if you find some way to truly disguise yourself," Russandol said. "After all, a mask and an unfamiliar suit only go so far."

"No one has caught me out yet."

"No one has _seen_ you yet," the other _nér_ corrected, as they drew near to another arched doorway. "There is quite a difference there."

"Minor technicalities," Findekáno said. "Trivial inconsistencies."

"They're only trivial so long as you don't get caught," Russandol answered.

"So long as who doesn't get caught?" a third voice asked. Findekáno froze, swallowing hard, instinctively tightening his grip on Russandol's arm and bringing his free one up to match its twin. For a moment, he felt like a child again, trying to duck behind one of his parents, and then he forced a politely neutral expression onto his face and hoped that the mask was enough to shield him. _Oh, Halls,_ he thought. _What in all of them is_ he _doing here?!_

Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light, was Tyelkormo. He leaned against the wall casually, as if he had chosen the precise position at which the lamplight would showcase his impressive physique, and he was grinning a wolf's grin. 

"Hello, Tyelko," Russandol said lightly. "What brings you here?"

"It's boring in there," his brother answered, tossing his hair over his shoulder.

"You mean you've run out of people to flirt with."

"That's the same thing," the blond _nér_ said lightly. "Who is this?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Russandol said, looking down at Findekáno. "I have been so dreadfully rude. This is Ranyawendë, a friend of Húvarion; I found her getting lost on her way back from the privies."

"You are quite the noble _roquen,_ as ever," Tyelko said, and turned his smile on Findekáno. "And here I thought you would never find a pretty _nís_ to catch your eye."

 _I don't think I can do this, Russo,_ Findekáno thought, _but better to play along than be tossed out on my ass._ He forced his voice up by an octave or two and tried to laugh as delicately as possible.

"Oh, I doubt I caught his eye," he said. "He was being a good host, that's all."

"Then may I ask you for a dance?" Tyelko asked, bowing and offering his hand. "Since my brother has so dreadfully neglected you."

Findekáno thought he would surely burn his mask off with the force of his blush. _I am_ not _dancing with him,_ he thought, as forcefully as possible. _I do not care what happens to me, I do not care if I face off against Fëanáro and his famed sword all on my own, I_ will not dance with him!

"I am terribly sorry, brother mine," Russandol said, and his tone was polite but firm. "I had already asked _heri_ Ranyawendë to be my partner in the _querië,_ and she graciously accepted."

"O _ho,"_ Tyelkormo said, raising an eyebrow. "Have you now?"

"Shut up," Russandol muttered, and Tyelkormo laughed.

"I do believe you _like_ her, brother dearest."

"You are assuming things," the older _nér_ said, and Findekáno glanced up to see him blushing until he was nearly the same color as his hair.

"So I'm right, then! How delightful."

"I _do not like -_!" Russandol began, and then broke off with a faint groan when Findekáno elbowed him in the ribs. "Fine," he amended, "fine, all right, we might have been talking for the past ten minutes."

"You're in luck," Tyelko said, gesturing dramatically toward the door and the lamplit hall beyond. "There's a break in the music. They are very nearly ready to begin."

"Oh no," Findekáno said, his voice raising thanks to his disguise and thanks to his shock. "No, no thank you, I really couldn't - !"

"Come on," Tyelko interrupted. He darted behind his brother and his incognito cousin and shoved them both forward. "You can't hide forever, Nelyo!"

 _"Á ercat,"_ Russandol gasped, stumbling out the door awkwardly with Findekáno on his arm.

"Tyel _kormo!"_ Findekáno groaned, clinging to his lover. But despite their best efforts, they were pushed out into the light and onto the floor, and their protestations turned instantly silent. There was no music, no dancing to focus on; all eyes were fixed on them. Findekáno could feel the desperate stares from the various _wendi_ who had been turned down by the mere fact that it was _him_ on Russandol's arm and not _them._ His lover sighed, looking over his shoulder at Tyelkormo, who looked supremely satisfied with himself as he lounged in the doorway once more. For a moment, the awkward silence continued, and then it was as if the room let out a sigh it barely knew it had been holding in. The musicians began to play again, filling the room with the six-beat rhythm of the _querië,_ and as the drums and pipes and harp and _tungaquerma_ picked up the tune, a few couples began to take tentative steps onto the marble floor again.

"They're waiting for us," Russandol murmured, and his voice was low and newly confident.

"They are not."

"I am the heir, and the highest-ranked person in the room," he said, easily slipping his arm free of Findekáno's hands and taking his place opposite his lover. "They are, in fact, waiting for me."

"What are they - ?" Findekáno began, and then he saw that Russandol was offering his hands. "No," he said quietly, even as he took them. "Russo, you have _seen_ me dance, I can't do this, you - !"

"Shush," the copper-haired _nér_ said, and his eyes were warm despite his impassive expression. "Follow my lead."

 _"I cannot dance!"_ Findekáno whispered, and yet his voice was level and calm as he let Russandol draw him very close to his chest.

"Open your mind to me," his lover said as they began to slowly move in tandem.

"What?"

"Open your mind to me," Russandol repeated, moving them effortlessly into a turn. "Let me in, and I can guide us through this."

FIndekáno swallowed hard for what felt like the thousandth time. He was familiar with the basic principles of _ósanwë-kenta,_ but he had never truly _tried_ it. _And what a time to learn,_ he thought, taking a frightened breath and delving deep within himself until he found what he hoped was his very core. _It is Russo,_ he told himself, _it is Maitimo, he is safe._ His eyes closed as they moved into another turn, and somehow he had not tangled himself up in his own feet yet, and there was a wall at the very center of who he was, and he gathered himself up and hurled everything he had at it, and, and -

\- his eyes opened, and he was looking up into Russandol's face, and the burning silver there, and suddenly he was no longer alone in his thoughts. He let out the breath he had been holding in a long, graceful sigh, and felt his arms moving as his lover adjusted his stance, and then they were flying across the gleaming floor in a long series of steps that all ran together, turning easily to the beat of the song, moving as one.

 _Is this what dancing is like for you?_ he thought, and he was shocked at the sudden amused warmth flooding his mind.

 _Yes,_ Russandol answered, smiling at him. _Now s_ _top thinking, and let me lead._

The minutes bled into one bright golden dream splashed with bright color. One by one, other couples joined them, until the room was filled with other dancers and Findekáno no longer felt quite so alone, but he knew all eyes were still on him. He was dimly aware of how easily and gracefully he was moving, and how he had not missed a step but instead matched Russandol stride for stride, but all he could focus on was his lover, guiding him through, holding him securely in confident arms. _You are glorious,_ he thought, and was gratified to see the other _nér_ blush.

 _You're distracting me,_ Russandol answered, and Findekáno smirked.

_I should hope I am distracting you. You are the loveliest thing I have ever seen._

_Am I?_ his lover asked, gripping his back tightly and ending the dance by bringing him into a very low dip. Their lips were inches from one another, close enough to lean forward and kiss. Findekáno thought they stayed there, hanging suspended between earth and sky, for an eternity; when at last he was brought back to his own feet he was gasping and blushing and quite breathless.

"Oh, Valar," he said, and he was certain he would die when Russandol stepped back from him and bowed to kiss his hand. "I - you - !"

"Thank you," Russandol said as he rose, eyes sparkling. A hint of a smirk played over his mouth. "You saved me from a truly dismal evening."

Before Findekáno could answer, the whole of the room was filled with the light chime of the midnight bell. He tried not to make a face - _oh, curse my good sense, and curse the clocks for going on!_ \- and instead gave his own half-smile.

"I should go," he said. "Any longer and I _will_ get caught. Especially after this. But..."

"I know," his lover said. "I know." He let Findekáno's hand drop, and stepped away. "Perhaps I will see you at the next ball?"

"You never know," Findekáno told him, and truly smiled, and then turned on his heel and slipped away into the crowd, leaving Russandol standing head and shoulders over all else in the room.

* * *

"So," Írissë said as she crawled out of the open window, "did you have a good time?"

"Good enough," Findekáno said lightly. "I didn't see you dancing at all, were you all right?"

"Oh, yes," she said, landing easily on the ground. "If you must know, I found a few old friends, and we all got delightfully drunk and played a few rounds of _Cuptalë."_

"Carnistir and the Ambarussat were playing _Cuptalë,"_ Findekáno said. 

"And you think they cared that I was there?"

He laughed. "I suppose they didn't."

"No," she said, "but let's get home, before our claims of camping under the stars wear thin."

"Yes," FIndekáno said, glancing back at the gleaming house one last time. "And before I lose myself and decide to go back in."

"What?" his sister asked, but he shook his head.

"Nothing," he told her. "Just... thinking on a beautiful dream."

"You're ridiculous," she said, giggling at him.

"I'm a romantic," he argued as she laughed. She seized his hand, and pulled him out into the silvery darkness, leaving the memory of the night in their wake.

**Author's Note:**

> The word "núrë" is neo-Quenya, developed by Helge Fauskanger.


End file.
